


knowledge

by elizajane



Series: and behold, it was so very good [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Morning Sex, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: The morning after and the night before.





	knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> For those who saw my comment on Twitter, these are (some of) the scenes from my "Aziraphale's orgasms" document. Not all of the orgasms are Aziraphale's. 
> 
> Blessings upon Crowgirl for her beta, which (as always) pushed me to do more and better.
> 
> CONTENT NOTE: Since this is the first sexually explicit fic of the series, and Crowley has non-normative (for humans) anatomy, I have a note (totally optional reading) at the end about sex, sexuality, and gender for people who would like to have more information before proceeding.

"I really must open the shop," Aziraphale says, glancing at the clock. Crowley rolls his head to peer at the bedside table where Aziraphale's ancient alarm clock perches. It had been a gift from Crowley back in ... He casts about for a moment before his memory coughs up 1923. While stoically keeping time more or less accurately, it also has a particular unsettling jangle -- a noise produced by no other alarm clock before or since -- and is prone to go off with no reference to its mechanism as set. Crowley's doing, of course, and he had anticipated that Aziraphale would rid himself of it before the year was out.

He hadn't.

Crowley looks back at Aziraphale who is currently petting -- Crowley feels sure that's the never-to-be-uttered-aloud word for what Aziraphale is doing -- _petting_ the soft, snakey skin just below Crowley's navel. Aziraphale’s lashes are gilded with the sunlight slanting through the window and the look of vulnerable, loving absorption on Aziraphale’s face mirrors the feelings that Crowley had been attempting to quash in his own breast when he’d purchased, tinkered with, and gifted the alarm clock all those years before. He’d wanted Aziraphale to look at him and see a loud, annoying, waspish sort of being who revelled in disrupting the peace at all hours of the day or night. Who couldn’t be _relied_ upon. It would be foolish -- it would be _dangerous_ \-- for Aziraphale to depend upon him for anything. The road to hell, in fact. The only way to keep Aziraphale safe was to remind him on a regular basis how worthless Crowley actually was.

Perhaps now, Crowley thinks (hesitantly, as if feeling his way around a precariously placed charge of dynamite), he understands a bit more clearly why the alarm clock had never seen the inside of a rubbish bin. Aziraphale had been in on the joke, as it were. Had understood what Crowley meant with the alarming alarm clock all along. The thought simultaneously causes Crowley to fall a little bit more madly in love and want to discorporate instantly before the truth is out and anyone, anywhere, but particularly from Heaven or Hell, can find out and do anything to harm the being who means more to him than existence itself.

"Must you _really_?" is what he manages, with the arch of an eyebrow. The question is more breathless than he’d prefer, but he hopes Aziraphale will assume the breathlessness is more carnal pleasure than existential crisis. To encourage this interpretation, Crowley catches Aziraphale’s gaze and looks pointedly downward along the length of his own torso to where Aziraphale is stroking ever-lower circles toward the place between Crowley's thighs where he keeps the softest bits of all. Crowley rolls his hips up into Aziraphale's hand. They've done this twice already since sunrise -- once before, and once after, consuming tea and scones -- but Crowley sees no reason why that should preclude doing it again. The world hasn’t ended and Aziraphale is finally touching him -- and touching him and touching him and touching him -- without excuse or apology. Aziraphale's touch is heat with just a hint of lightning, sparking where they meet and warming Crowley from the inside out, demanding Crowley focus on everything that _is_ about this moment of existence rather than his terror about what could happen if the wrong beings start paying attention. 

"I do _try_ to keep regular hours," Aziraphale says with a sniff, though his lips twitch upward towards a smile as he meets Crowley’s gaze. He’s massaging the cloacal muscles between Crowley’s thighs, working toward something more insistent with each slide of his fingers against already slick folds. Crowley can feel the heavy ache returning like a tide.

“Wouldn’t want --” he tries, then turns to bury his face in the pillow as Aziraphale slides the first digit inside. _\-- to keep your customers waiting_ is lost in the bedding and his own scattered wits. Words have ceased to matter; their conversation happening in the register of pulse and hum, the sound of Aziraphale fucking into him, the soft breach of Aziraphale’s lips opening as he bends down to take Crowley’s nipple into his mouth. Crowley arches into the touch, the heat, fingers, tongue, the press of Aziraphale’s body alongside him, the weight of a leg thrown across his own to contain his writhing. Aziraphale pulls back from Crowley’s chest and looks up to check Crowley’s expression, cheeks pink and iridescent with a sheen that Crowley had thought a trick of the lamplight the night before. But no: it’s _arousal_. He reaches up in fascination to swipe a thumb across Aziraphale’s jaw and then puts it to his mouth.

Aziraphale’s desire for him tastes like ice wine and elderberries. Crowley thinks, in a moment of terrible clarity, that this could be the forbidden knowledge that kills him.

He doesn’t have words for this revelation so he lunges up to bite at Aziraphale’s lip instead, digging his fingers into the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulders as he writhes against the intrusive pressure of a second finger, then a third. It's astounding to be filled to the brim in this way, to be graced with a surfeit of Aziraphale's touches after so many centuries of hoarding every too-brief brush of a thumb, graze of fingertips, press of thigh, tug on a shirt sleeve. It’s painfully perfect in every particular. 

He needs it to stop; he wants it never to stop.

* * *

_The brass clock on the mantle chimes quarter past nine as Aziraphale drops to his knees before Crowley's chair. In a prudent universe Crowley would be doing what he’s always done: stalking out into the night before he does something irrevocable. But it seems the universe has become an irrevocable place because Crowley is sliding -- or is this being dragged by Aziraphale’s guiding hands? -- from the worn velvet of the chair into Aziraphale’s lap. He’s cold with the knowledge of how reckless this is. How there is no way to spin this moment into something plausibly Demonic. He’s_ good _at weaving stories, peddling untruths, misdirections, but there will be no way to hide the truth of this. Even silence will be confession._

Crowley _, Aziraphale says his name, amazed._ Crowley. _Hands steadying at Crowley’s hips, lips skimming across Crowley’s cheek as he sits there frozen with terror._ Crowley. My dear. Dearest. _Words brushed against Crowley’s skin between kisses. Crowley feels Aziraphale trembling beneath him, hands shaking as he strokes hot palms down Crowley’s sides_ Crowley, please. Let me --

Yes _, Crowley finally gasps, in disbelief, against Aziraphale's kisses._ Yes. _Because in truth it has been centuries since he’s said no to Aziraphale and made it stick._

 _Crowley has often imagined what kissing Aziraphale would feel like. His imagination has been lacking. He'd extrapolated from the warmth, like sunshine, Aziraphale's touches brought with them. He'd fantasized about the taste of lapsang souchong and orange marmalade. He'd catalogued each of Aziraphale's unique vocalizations of pleasure and considered what might be required to elicit them. What his devilish mind had failed to account for was that all of these things would happen_ simultaneously _. That he would taste the Pinot Noir and feel the other-worldly heat of Aziraphale's fingertips as he pushed them, eager, beneath Crowley’s jumper. That Aziraphale would make noises of infinite satisfaction as Crowley pushed Aziraphale's jacket off his shoulders and set to work on his mother-of-pearl buttons._

 _The ache that had begun earlier that evening as a tight, manageable, familiar knot in Crowley's groin grows until he feels half-mad from it, pushing him to get closer and closer and closer still if he can do it. He’d felt this ache in proximity to Aziraphale for centuries before understanding what it meant; human bodies did_ so many _strange things and Crowley's snakey bits led to further confusion. His body just … pained him when Aziraphale was near. He’d thought for millennia that it was an angel ...thingy. Allergic reaction. Side-effect. After all, no-one had handed Crowley a rule book. And to observe that senior demons did not welcome questions from their underlings was the understatement of several centuries._

_In the end, it had taken some rather vividly-illustrated eighteenth-century pornography -- featuring snakes and nuns getting up to decidedly un-angelic things; causing a similar ache as he stood, transfixed, in the library of a Swiss theologian -- for Crowley to connect the restless need he felt around Aziraphale with the human act of copulation. That moment of realization had caused him to avoid Aziraphale for the better part of a decade before he panicked about the lack of contact and fled back to London where he always knew Aziraphale could, eventually, always, be found._

_The ache had returned._

_It had been shortly after that reunion that an imperious (breathtaking, gorgeous) Aziraphale had forcibly sat Crowley down to clean and braid his tangled locks. Crowley had shivered and complained, fighting against the way his traitorous body gave way under Aziraphale’s sure and gentle touches. Giving way had_ hurt _. Aziraphale's gentleness had made him_ angry _._

 _And then, slowly, the privacy of Aziraphale’s workroom enveloped them in … something approximating safety. The crackle of the fire and Aziraphale’s small murmurs were the only sounds to break the stillness once Crowley himself had ceased to talk. The ache had been there, that night. And Crowley had felt raw with the knowledge of what he might_ do _with that ache. What Aziraphale might do (what Crowley yearned for him to do) in response to it. He’d felt his corporeal form might split with the knowing of it. What had flayed him open and then put him back together was the dawning awareness that Aziraphale would … hold him. Split skin and all. That the ache wouldn’t destroy them. That Aziraphale would weave Crowley back together as tenderly as he was weaving his hair strand over strand, smoothing and shaping, without Crowley having to say a word. He could just be … held._

_He wondered that night (had wondered almost continuously, since that cataclysmic day in the library at Lausanne) whether Aziraphale had understanding of a similar kind. Whether Aziraphale ached as well -- and if he did whether it was Crowley who brought it about. He couldn’t ask. Silence was safety. But the ache didn’t drive Aziraphale away. And the ache was a small price to pay in exchange for the balm that was Aziraphale’s hands on his head, Aziraphale’s voice in his ear, Aziraphale’s excitement overflowing into Crowley’s days, Aziraphale’s everything not so far away as Crowley had tried to shove them._

_Together, they would survive Crowley’s dangerous, unruly, impossible desire._

_Tonight, after centuries of silence, Crowley no longer wonders whether Aziraphale aches for him. Whether he_ knows _. Beneath Crowley’s hands and thighs, where they’re folded together on the sitting room floor, Aziraphale continues to tremble -- almost_ politely _\-- as Crowley makes quick work of the buttons and pushes his fine cotton shirt aside. A thin vest is all that remains between him and Aziraphale's pale skin -- skin that seems to shimmer in the lamplight, opalescent colors swirling and smearing at the edge of Crowley’s vision. Crowley leans back in Aziraphale’s lap and tugs the hem of the vest upward, wordlessly urging Aziraphale to let go of Crowley’s hips long enough for Crowley to pull the scrap of fabric off and toss it aside. All that’s left, then, is to lean into yet another kiss and use the momentum of gravity to tip Aziraphale gently backwards onto the thick, rich pile of the carpet Aziraphale had brought home from Istanbul in 1867. Aziraphale allows himself to be handled, hands flung back and open, grasping air as if he can hold_ everything _that is between them. His eyes on Crowley’s face burn, too hot and trusting for Crowley to deserve -- but (and this is where Crowley's weakness had always lain) he desperately_ wants _to deserve every look Aziraphale bestows._

 _Contrary to many human stories,_ proper _demons -- the demons Crowley reported to, the ones who hadn’t been shaped and reshaped across time by exposure to humans, to Earth, to_ Aziraphale _\-- took pleasure from mostly unpleasurable things: apathy, pain, shame, loneliness, despair. Sexual sin of the pleasurable and consensual variety was no more in their playbook than it was in Heaven's and Crowley had long since come to the conclusion that he and Eve had gotten it all entirely wrong: The knowledge they had both been tempted by -- had lost Eden to obtain -- hadn't been demonic in nature at all. It had been the very human truths of curiosity, hope, connection, and love._

_“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers below him, hopeful, lost._

_“I’m here,” Crowley musters the courage to say, “I’m here. I’m yours. Yes.”_

* * *

Three orgasms, Crowley is forced to concede, might be an acceptable count for the present. Every joint in his human form feels liquid, everything beyond the ebbtide of pleasure a haze of very-not-important as his pulse slows to a sluggish post-coital _thrum_ of contentment.

Except then Aziraphale moves. And not in a way that suggests he’s about to give Crowley access to his own most interesting (and currently very interested) parts. “I have an appointment at half nine,” Aziraphale whispers, reluctant, against Crowley's skin. “Nasreen Hyland. Some books from an estate sale in West Sussex. I shall need to -- compose myself before she arrives.” Crowley draws together enough coordination to lift his head and nip at Aziraphale's lip -- because _really_ , are they still having this conversation? -- before casting out along his demonic senses until he finds the human in question, in a taxi at a roundabout. It's simple work to cause a minor collision -- _no lives lost!_ he promises Adam -- and delay her arrival by at _least_ thirty minutes. Probably more.

"You have an appointment at _ten_ ," Crowley corrects, nipping again and then sucking at the tender plump of Aziraphale’s lower lip. "We have something to finish here first." Aziraphale inhales to speak, but Crowley presses his advantage by rolling toward Aziraphale and pushing his leg up over Aziraphale's hip. This, brilliantly, has the effect of pulling Aziraphale’s fingers deeper -- making Crowley feel breathlessly filled and painfully empty -- while also trapping Aziraphale’s cock between them. Aziraphale's breath comes out in a moan and his hips jerk forward as Crowley unilaterally ends the discussion by sliding a hand around to the back of Aziraphale's neck and pulling him into a kiss.

Over Aziraphale's shoulder, Crowley can see wings shudder on the edge of manifesting, heat waves in the air that dance in the corner of Crowley's eyesight. He had discovered, the night before, that the port wine stains on the skin between Aziraphale's shoulders -- the place where wings would extend if they existed in the same dimension as the rest of him -- were sensitive to the touch. That running his hands over them, pressing, kneading, stroking just _there_ seems to send shudders down to Aziraphale's core. Crowley both wonders if any other being has touched Aziraphale there -- on Earth or in Heaven -- and wishes to smite anyone who would ever dare.

He strokes down Aziraphale's back, feeling Aziraphale quake beneath his hands, along his flank, and wonders if he could cause Aziraphale to climax from this touch alone. He hasn't yet, but he's had less than a single revolution of the earth to finesse his technique and Crowley has always enjoyed a challenge where Aziraphale is concerned. He can almost feel feathers under his palms as he sweeps a hand back up over Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale sucks in a breath that is almost a sob. It makes Crowley pause, even though Aziraphale's fingers are still anchored within him.

"Is it--" he has no idea how to finish the question. Too much? Not enough? Painful? Ecstatic? But Aziraphale is already shaking his head.

"I _want_ \--" he tries, hauls in another breath. "I want you to. So -- so _very_ much. It’s --"

"Like ...this?" Crowley slides his hands down over Aziraphale's back again.

Aziraphale arches up into the touch, forehead hot against Crowley's shoulder. They do it again.

"Is this how angels ...?" _Fuck_ seems accurate but crass, something he's willing to be but the moment seems wrong. What they’re doing here is _Earth_ and _animal_ , _human_ even and all the more sacred for it.

"I don't ...no, I don't _know_ ," Aziraphale mutters into Crowley's neck where he's pressed his heated face to Crowley's comparatively cool skin. "It's...It's only ever happened around ... that is, in relation to you. I haven't exactly ... tested it. Widely."

"Oh?" _Aziraphale has ached for him_. Crowley thinks he will never tire of hearing the confession, and rewards this telling with a tilt of his hips to bring their bellies flush together, Aziraphale's length between them. _Aziraphale has ached for him._ Aziraphale's fingers curl convulsively inside his body. He’s slicking them both, now, with so much arousal Crowley will look like he’s been to an all-night rave. Crowley’s hands slither over Aziraphale’s shoulders, flanks, and down to his hips; he writhes at their point of joining as he tries to work a hand between them. Everything is heat and slip and emptiness and stretched open; he’ll come again covered in Aziraphale’s pleasure. And just as he thinks it, Aziraphale’s every muscle pulls inward and it’s almost as if the air around them itself shivers at the edge of rupture before he’s coming. And Crowley tips shiveringly after.

* * *

The alarm clock howls at them sometime later. Crowley reaches out, picks it up, and heaves it toward the wastepaper basket in the corner. “Bloody thing.”

Aziraphale pats his arm contentedly. “Don’t abuse it. It always made me think of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> EXPANDED NOTE ON GENDER, SEX, and SEXUALITY:
> 
> Because of the wide range of interpretations in this fandom re: Aziraphale and Crowley in relation to human sexuality, sex, and gender identity (three cheers!) a few notes. I hope this is helpful for those trying to decide whether or not this series will be their jam.
> 
> Aziraphale has settled into what contemporary Western culture considers a male-typical body and moves through the world as a male human(ish) being. He thinks and speaks of himself using male pronouns, and this is how Crowley relates to and thinks of him. 
> 
> Crowley also moves through the world as a human(ish) male(ish) being, though has been known to present himself as a woman when circumstances require; he thinks and speaks of himself using male pronouns, and this is primarily how Aziraphale relates to and thinks of him. Crowley’s snake form is female-typical and while in human form some parts of Crowley’s anatomy (including his genitalia) remain female-typical for serpents. 
> 
> Both of them very much desire both romantic attachment and sexual intimacy with one another (although it's taken them a long while to figure that out). 
> 
> Both Crowley and Aziraphale have trauma history related to touch (touch depravation and violence) and shaming around desire for sexual and romantic connection. In part because of this, most of their positive physical contact has been with one another (and, until recently, minimal). While feelings related to this history come up, none of that is graphically depicted in this particular work. If it becomes relevant later in the series I will be sure to tag appropriately.
> 
> Finally -- because I know many people have religious trauma around sexual desire and pleasure -- I want to underscore that while both Angelic and Demonic cultures in this 'verse are punitive around romantic and sexual intimacy, the entity referred to as God is not. Crowley and Aziraphale might sometimes feel broken and unworthy of one another but God beholds them and knows that they are good. If you need to hear this: So are you.


End file.
